Let's Do Lunch
by r4ven3
Summary: Set mid S.9. Three people meet in London for lunch. Who are they? Originally a one shot, now a two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

"Let's do lunch," he'd said, and she'd said fine, she'd look forward to that. Once she was off the phone, she wasn't sure she was ready for this, or that she wanted to meet him like this, but she'd agreed, so now she feels committed. All morning she's been considering calling him and saying that she's required at work, and can't make lunch, but even inside her head that sounds lame. Of all the things she is, she is not a coward.

She's late. She hates being late, but she almost always is. In her own mind she's punctual as a mark of respect for the other person, but in reality, there is always some last minute distraction which prevents her from being on time – the phone call which she must make before she leaves; a last minute clothing change; touching up her mascara; checking her messages to see if he's cancelled. He, on the other hand, true to his military background, will be there as the clock strikes the hour.

He'd told her very little, but he's like that. It's a while since she's seen him. She's been away, and he is always busy. Her memories of him all have him working too hard and for too long.

He'd rung late last week, and after catching up with all the superficial details people talk about on the phone (and he's never been good at superficial, social chit-chat), he'd asked her to meet him for lunch.

"I'm with someone," he'd said. "I'd like you to meet her. I think you might like her. I _hope_ you like her."

"But will she like me?" she'd said.

"Oh, she'll like you. You're so easy to like, and she's wonderful."

"Have you known her long?" she asks, trying to keep her voice light, meaning to sound keen and interested, even though deep inside her where her real self lives, she is scared shitless.

"Yes, but we've only just …... we've only recently made it official." He gives an embarrassed little laugh, which tells her that he's quite new at this.

She feels happy for him, of course. He's been single for such a long time. But she can't help the stab of `something' as he talks about how happy he is …... and he _does_ sound happy. Last time she'd seen him he'd been depressed and morose, but that had been months ago. She's been used to him being single. When she was away from the UK for a long time, she'd imagine him at home alone, and hoped he spared a thought for her, even though they'd lost contact for a time. It was not long after she came back to London that she'd - on a whim - drop in to his house at breakfast time, knowing that she'd not be interrupting anything. There had been several occasions when she'd found herself on his doorstep at ten or eleven at night. If she saw a light on inside, she'd knock, knowing almost for certain that he wouldn't be entertaining a woman. She'd thought he may have given up on that part of his life. Part of her liked him being available when she needed him, while another part of her truly wanted him to find happiness with someone. She couldn't bear the thought of him growing old alone, with no-one to share his life. She wasn't able to tell him that she is really nervous about meeting his new love.

The restaurant he has chosen is down one of those alleys near the Thames. It's too quiet and conservative for it to be attractive to the young business crowd, and too light and cheery for it to be a trysting place for lovers. It serves Italian food, and Italian has become her favourite. She wonders if he remembers her love of Italian food. She opens the door, and immediately sees him striding across the restaurant to meet her. It is only then that she realises that he hasn't told her the name of his girlfriend, or if he has, she's forgotten it. She determines to listen carefully, and to not talk out of nervousness. It is not attractive at all.

"It is _so_ good to see you," he says, embracing her, and holding her to him. "Christ, it's been far too long," he adds.

She smiles up into his face. He has a few more lines, even another scar – above his right eyebrow. So, what else is new? Fifty-six years old, and he still fancies himself a field spook. She wants to ask him about it, but she'd only be stalling the inevitable. "It's good to see you, too. It's been too long."

"Well, you know my phone number," he says cheerfully. He really seems very happy. She wants so much to be happy for him, but – truthfully? - she's dreading meeting the new woman. He loves women, but he's never been good in long-term relationships with them.

She holds her face in a smile as, with his hand lightly holding her elbow, he guides her across the room to the back of the restaurant. She looks around for the kind of woman she thinks he might be with, and there is no-one fitting that description in the whole of the restaurant. Willowy, blond, blue or green-eyed, elegant, tailored clothing, expensive jewellery, manicured nails …... nope, no-one like that where they're heading.

"Here we are," he says, as he shows her to a table where a woman sits.

Suddenly, she is sitting down, and he is introducing them, and she doesn't hear a word he says. So much for her listening skills. She is stunned by this woman. She is almost the antithesis of what she'd expected.

"Hi," she says lamely, "It's really good to meet you at last. I'd like to say I've heard a lot about you, but I haven't." She cringes inside, realising that her words could be misunderstood as being bitchy.

"I've heard quite a lot about you," the girlfriend says. "Harry has told me all about you. He's very proud of you, and the work you do."

"That's good. He's been somewhat secretive about you. Obviously he's been keeping you to himself."

Despite herself, she likes this woman. She's not tall, nor is she blond, she's neatly, but not elegantly dressed, she wears minimal jewellery, and her fingernails are short and not painted, but there is definitely something about her which is warm, compelling and intelligent. Perhaps it's her eyes. This woman has the bluest eyes she's ever seen, and they follow him wherever he is, and whatever he's doing. She's obviously crazy about him, and that makes her glad. He needs to be loved like that – with abandon and passion, no holds barred. It's clear to her that she'll no longer be able to turn up at his front door at all hours, expecting to be welcomed. From now on he'll have company.

Ruth. That's the name he said. Her name is Ruth. The name rings a bell, and she's sure that he's talked before about this woman. It's the way he says her name; she's never heard that reverential tone in his voice when he utters other names. She smiles, and nods when he offers to pour her a glass of wine. She sips her wine as she watches them over the top of her glass. They only have eyes for each other. She could stand on the table and strip, and they'd barely notice. Ruth puts her hand over his and with her fingertips softly caresses the back of his hand. She is shocked by how intimate such a simple action appears when Ruth does it. He gazes at her openly, and she can see how much love they have for one another. Were it not a decidedly inappropriate thought for the daughter of a middle-aged man to be having, she can swear that he is undressing her with his eyes.

"So," Catherine begins, determined to participate in this meeting in more than a voyeuristic capacity, "how did you two get together?"

Harry's eyes look startled by her question, and Ruth smiles at him, a knowing smile. It is a smile which says that these two have a long and complex history, and their separate stories are interwoven in a blanket which they will wrap around them to warm them as they grow old together.

"We have worked together for – how long is it Ruth …...?"

"Yonks. We've worked together for forever, and we've loved one another for much of that time, but in a weird, secretive kind of way." They smile at each other knowingly, perhaps remembering some of that `weird, secretive' loving.

"So," Catherine continues, needing to be the conversation prompter, to ensure her father and his lady love don't spend the lunch making love to one another with their eyes, or anything else for that matter. "So, why now? Why not …... back then?"

"Now _that_," he says, "is an extremely good question. Had I had my way, this beautiful woman would have been my wife four years ago."

"Oh, Harry. If we'd married then, we'd have been among the divorce statistics by now. We're like a bottle of very good red wine, Catherine. We had to be laid down for a few years for us to mature. Only now are we ready for drinking."

Despite Ruth's very apt metaphor, Catherine noticed her father's eyebrows lift at the words, `laid down'. "It sounds like you have marriage plans," she says, and only with those words does she notice the sapphire and diamond ring on Ruth's finger.

"Yes," he replies. "That's one of the reasons we've invited you for lunch." He looks at Ruth, his eyes adoring her. "Darling?"

"Harry and I would like you to be at our wedding," Ruth says. "If you'll still be in London on Thursday fortnight, we'd be thrilled if you could be a witness. It will only be a small gathering of friends and family."

"I'd love to," Catherine replies. "I'm so pleased you've asked me." She is still trying to get her head around this. Her father in love, and so demonstrative with it. She'd never seen him this way before. Not only that, his woman of choice is intelligent, thoughtful, a little self-conscious, perhaps a little odd, and so very perfect for him.

"And Graham is invited, too," Harry adds.

"You're sure?"

"Of course. He's my son, and I'd like him to share this day with us all."

"How did you …... get from colleagues to …... this? It's quite a leap, and I know the service doesn't encourage it."

"Shall I tell her about Ros's funeral?" Ruth asks Harry.

"If you must." He looks shy, embarrassed. Another first.

"Well," Ruth begins, glancing quickly at Harry, "one of our colleagues – Ros – was killed in a hotel bombing." _As you do_, Catherine thinks. "And after the funeral, while we were still in the churchyard, Harry asked me to marry him."

"Dad, you didn't!" Her father rolls his eyes and nods.

Ruth continues, excited now. "I said no."

"You said no?"

"Yes, I said no. Then a few weeks later, we'd both got over the shock of losing Ros, he came around to mine one night quite late, and he begged me – on bended knee -"

"I wasn't on bended knee, but I did beg you. Catherine, I begged this woman to change her mind. Wouldn't you?"

Catherine heartily agrees that begging Ruth had been one of her father's better ideas.

"I said that I'd consider his proposal, but first we had to spend a minimum of three months in getting to know one another outside work, beginning with dinner. We had to determine if the chemistry was still there."

"And I see that it was."

"By the end of the first dinner date, we knew, didn't we Harry?"

"I knew as soon as she opened the door to me when I went to pick her up for our dinner date. Had I had my way, we would have skipped dinner."

"Harry!" admonishes Ruth. "Catherine, I apologise on Harry's behalf. He can be a little …... enthusiastic."

Catherine sits back and enjoys herself. Her dad has found his muse, and for that she is grateful. She just hopes that they can make it together, since the odds are most likely heavily stacked against them, given the job they both do.

* * *

Later that night, Catherine rings Graham.

"I met her today," she says.

"And? Another model has-been?"

"On the contrary. Ruth is perfect for him, _and_ she's a spook. We won't have to worry about him any more."

"As if I would!"

"Come one, little brother, you were as concerned as I'd been. You're invited to the wedding, by the way."

"Christ! He's getting married. It must be serious."

"It's serious. You'll come?"

"I'll have to think about it." He thought for a bit. "Okay, thought about it. What do you think I should wear?"

Catherine laughs into the phone. She can't wait for Thursday fortnight. It should be a hoot.

* * *

_**A/N: I'm not sure if that worked in the way it was intended. I'm curious as to whether you were fooled, or whether the identity of the woman meeting Harry for lunch was obvious. From where I sit, I just can't tell.**_

_**Thanks for reading...**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:**** This fic was always going to be a one-shot, but a few reviewers suggested there be a follow-up chapter, so here it is. **_

* * *

_Ruth's and Harry's wedding day -16 days later:_

He feels overdressed, and has removed his tie, but he is still a stand-out in the group of men dressed in casual slacks and open-necked shirts. He had wanted to dress well for this day. He is showing respect, something he lacks, or so he's been told often enough. He is demonstrating that he is a man, a grown-up, and that he can be trusted. He'd bought his suit – and shirt and tie and shoes – with money he has earned honestly. Nothing on his person has been acquired illegally; he hasn't done that for a while now, but he's not sure that a certain person would believe him. All in all, he can't blame Harry for being disappointed in him. Were he in his shoes, he'd no doubt feel the same way.

Now, the happy couple is bearing down on him, and Catherine is nowhere to be seen. He looks around the room – a private room in the Roebuck in Hampstead – and all he sees is a collection of random spooks, their hands curled around their drinks, their conversation hushed and serious, like they're in the business of saving the world or something. Aside from Ruth, only one stands out, a young blond woman with feline eyes and a rowdy laugh. He suspects her of having had one drink too many. He'd met Ruth two nights earlier, and had fallen for her instantly, but he and his father are still only on little more than grunting terms. Harry is trying, but despite his softness towards Ruth, he is still the same supercilious git he's always been.

"Graham," Ruth says, reaching out to him with both hands, "I'm so glad you came, and you look so handsome, too. Doesn't he look wonderful, Harry?"

Graham allows Ruth to grab his hands and kiss his cheek, and he breathes in the sweet scent of her. If his father hadn't found her first, he'd have grabbed her for himself. Ruth may be more than a decade older than he is, but cougar courting is assigned extra cred within his small social circle. As Ruth pulls away from him to look adoringly up at Harry, he feels a moment of resentment that despite being a hard bastard, his father is with the best girl in the room, probably in the whole pub.

"Graham," his father says, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Dad. Congratulations, you two. It was a really nice ceremony. I'm glad you didn't go overboard with it." _At your age_, is left unspoken.

"You look very smart," Harry continues, obviously stuck for anything else to say. He grasps Ruth's hand tightly, hoping to convey to her his discomfort.

"Thanks. No-one told me it was a casual wedding. You look …... a bit under-dressed, to be honest."

"Oh no," exclaims Ruth. "I think your father looks very handsome. Blue has always suited him."

"His shirt matches your eyes," Graham observes, noticing for the first time how close the colour of Harry's shirt is to the blue of Ruth's eyes. Ruth's dress is a deep and dark scarlet – unusual, he knows – and she stands out in the crowd, the most striking woman in the room.

"There you are!" comes a cry from Catherine, as she joins them in the corner where Graham has been hiding, people-watching. She stands between her father and new step-mother, an arm around the waist of each of them. "What do you think of little brother?" she asks Harry. "Rather smashing, wot?" Catherine adds, aping a posh accent.

"I think he looks handsome, but he looks a lot like Harry, so I'm biased."

"Dad?" prompts Catherine.

"I've already told him he looks good. It's good to see him in a suit." _Anything is an improvement on the ripped jeans and dope leaf t shirt he was wearing when last I saw him_, is left unsaid.

"He's going back to university," Catherine continues, "in September."

"That's wonderful, Graham," says Ruth.

"What course?" asks his father.

"Computer Science."

"What happened to your geography course?" Harry barrels through.

"I wasn't interested in it. I now know what interests me, and it's computer science."

"What university?"

"Westminster."

"He did really well to be accepted," says Catherine. "It's a tough course to get into."

"Good," says Harry. "I'm pleased that you're using your brains." _And that you haven't managed to fry every functioning brain cell with your drug-taking,_ goes unsaid.

"I think I'll go and have a chat to your techie, Dad," Graham says, making his way out of the family group, and heading over to where Tariq and Malcolm are deep in conversation. Ruth watches him walk away, and she swears she sees his body sag with relief.

Catherine's face takes on a frustrated expression as she glares at Harry. "You two are bloody hard work, you know that?"

"What?" Harry says, lifting his shoulders and holding out his hands, palms upwards, like he's a member of the New Jersey mafia. "I'm trying."

Ruth steps between her husband of less than an hour and his daughter, and looks at Catherine. "Could you give us a moment, Catherine? Harry and I need to talk."

Catherine wanders off in search of Graham, who has cloistered himself, along with Malcolm and Tariq, behind a large palm in an equally large pot on the other side of the room.

"Darling," Ruth says, looking Harry in the eye, "you know how much I love you, and that my love for you is unconditional, right?" He nods, smiling. "But for the love of the English cricket team, what are you doing to your son?"

"It's hard," he says, shifting uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

"No-one says it's easy, but you're meant to be the parent here, and Graham is screaming – I'll repeat that – he is _screaming _for you to love him. Look at how he dressed up for our wedding. He's trying to tell you something, Harry."

"What is he trying to tell me, because I can never figure it out."

"He dressed in his best suit for your – no, _our_ – wedding so that you would look at him and feel proud. He wants you to love him – no matter what he does – and he wants you to be proud of the man he is – no matter whether in your eyes he is a success or a failure. That's it. Is that too much to ask of you?"

Harry is looking at her with love for her in his eyes. He wonders what he has done to have deserved being loved by her. "You're amazing, do you know that?" he says, his voice husky with emotion.

"You have told me that once or twice, Harry. Now, show me that you can be the man I know you are. Swallow your pride, and show your son how much you love him."

"Show? How?"

"Here's what I suggest," Ruth says, taking his hand, and drawing him close to her, so that he is the only one who hears her.

Ruth watches Harry as he walks to the group of three men behind the palm. He speaks to Graham quietly, and Graham, face suspicious, pulls back and shakes his head. Harry then smiles at him, and indicates with a tip of his head that they should go into another room together. Ruth holds her breath and prays silently. She prays that Harry has said the right thing, and that Graham will trust him. She lets out her breath when the two men – her husband and his adult son – leave the room together. Now it will be up to Harry.

Twenty minutes later, Ruth is talking with Tariq, Malcolm and Beth, all the time keeping an eye on the door. Harry comes back into the room alone. There is no sign of Graham. Ruth's shoulders slump slightly. Her husband looks around the room for her, and when their eyes meet, he smiles and nods his head. Ruth's plan just may have worked.

* * *

_Royale Hotel, Paris – two days later - 7.17 am:_

They lay in sweat-bathed satisfaction, both smiling, both too exhausted to speak. At last they are on the Grand Tour, and they have a whole month in which to indulge in walking, talking, sight-seeing, eye-gazing, eating, and of course, love-making, the latter of which has so far taken precedence.

"Do you think we did the right thing?" he asks after some time.

"Getting married, or making love again?"

He leans across and gently nips her earlobe with his teeth. "You know very well what I mean."

"You mean home, don't you? You mean Graham. You have to give him enough rope to hang himself, then trust that he'll choose the right path."

"I suspect that's a mixed metaphor."

"It probably is …... but I mean it, Harry. You can't spend the rest of your life waiting for him to mess up again, because if you do -"

"He'll ultimately give me what I expect."

"Precisely."

Harry turns from her to grab his phone from the bedside table.

"Darling, if Graham sets fire to the house, or opens a crack den in your office, I'm sure someone will tell us. And we're insured, so you don't have to keep checking that -" Ruth leans across him to take the phone from his fingers before he's had a chance to open it. "Now, where were we?"

_Harry's and Ruth's house, London – same day – 9.55 am:_

Graham Pearce is still wearing only his boxers, having stumbled out of bed a half hour earlier. There is plenty of food to eat, but he settles on a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, before he lets Scarlet into the back yard for her morning wee. He stands barefoot on the patio, coffee in one hand, and the toast in the other. He can't believe that Harry gave him the keys to their house, and asked him to stay here for a whole 30 days. He senses Ruth's involvement, but it was the old man who made the offer. He almost said no, but then realised that would be stupid. He is being handed a peace offering, and he's smart enough to know he'd better not screw up.

_Later the same day:_

He has spent most of the day – Saturday - wandering through the rooms of the house, trying to find out what makes Harry tick. There are many indications of Ruth's presence in the house – her books on every available surface, notes she has written and pinned to a noticeboard in the kitchen, her slippers stuffed under the sofa in the living room, a jacket of hers slipped over the back of a chair, lots of happy snaps of her and Harry on shelves and tables throughout the house. On the other hand, Harry's footprint is hard to find.

He'd opened the door to their bedroom, feeling guilty about it, but not retreating. He'd stepped into this room where his father had (probably) slept alone until Ruth had joined him. Their bed is large and comfortable, and he feels a pang of jealousy that a man as old and flawed as Harry has managed to hook up with a woman like Ruth. Images of them having sex in that bed are quickly quashed, and he shudders. Looking around the room he sees two large photographs. One is of his father with Ruth, and they appear to be on a boat, with the wind blowing her hair across her face, they are smiling at one another, and his arm is around her shoulders. He has to admit that it is a beautiful photo, and the lens has captured the two of them perfectly; Ruth's face is open with laughter, while his father's is a portrait of love and adoration. The other photograph surprises him. He has seen it before, but not for a long time, not since his mother had stuffed it in a drawer under the photo albums of their life as a family after Harry had left. Harry, Catherine and he are at the beach, and they are building a sand castle on Harry's stomach. He and Catherine were three and six. He's not sure whether he remembers the day, or if he remembers it through seeing this photo so much in his early childhood. His three-year-old self is pouring a bucketful of sand on to Harry's stomach, and his father is laughing, his face turned to his small son with surprise and open enjoyment.

Graham had left the bedroom quickly, tears pricking his eyes. He had closed the door quietly behind him, and walked down the hallway to Harry's office.

He is surprised that the office is not locked. He's not sure what he's looking for, but perhaps he's trying to find evidence that his father has a heart, and that he loves him. The room is small and ordered, but he'd expected that. There is little on the desk other than a small photo of Ruth in a silver frame, a pen holder containing two pens and three pencils, and a leather bound appointment diary. The latter holds little interest for him. He tries each of the drawers, but they are locked. Then he notices a smaller table under the window, a chair pulled up to it. On the table is a laptop. He knows Harry is a technophobe, but with his job, he has to have embraced at least something of the world of technology.

His heart thudding, Graham sits on the chair, opens the laptop, and turns it on. He is immediately shocked to see that the desktop wallpaper is a childhood photo of he and Catherine, each in school uniform, both smiling at the camera. He can remember it being taken one Friday afternoon after his parents had divorced, and Harry had picked them up from school to spend the weekend with him. It had been a good time back then, even with everything that had happened. The laptop has finished loading, and his eyes are immediately drawn to a folder on the desktop marked `Graham'. He opens it to find at least fifty photographs of himself while growing up – from he as a baby, being held by a youthful Harry, to he as an angry teenager, deliberately denying the camera his eye contact. Harry had taken most of the photographs in that folder. Graham had had no idea that Harry had kept any of them. The last item in the folder is a text file. He clicks it, and it opens in Notepad.

_Graham, I thought you might like to see these. You can copy any you want for yourself. Spare USB flash drives are on the shelf behind you._

_Love, Dad_

Graham's first reaction is outrage and anger. He closes the laptop with force, standing up so quickly that he knocks over the chair. He feels manipulated. How could Harry love him, if he expects him to go snooping through his laptop?

Downstairs, he grabs Scarlet's lead, whistles to her, and takes her for a long walk. He walks her until she is so exhausted he has to carry her the rest of the way home. He is still fuming at dinner time, and he goes to bed angry.

Two days later, he is at work, and one of his workmates is bitching about his father, and Graham listens, but doesn't comment. That night on his way to bed, he again opens Harry's laptop, and opens the `Graham' folder. This time he takes his time browsing through the photos, remembering where and when each had been taken. Before he closes the laptop, he sends a text to Harry.

_Royale Hotel, Paris – same night – 11.34 pm:_

Harry and Ruth are wrapped around each other, both almost asleep, when Harry's mobile phone chirrups with a text message notification. He groans, reluctant to remove himself from the warm and comforting arms of his wife.

"You can read it, Harry. You know you want to."

"It's from Graham," he says after he's opened his phone. "He probably wants to know where I keep Scarlet's shampoo."

"At this time of night?"

"You have a point there." He reads the text, and then shows it to Ruth.

"_Thanks_," she reads aloud. "Just the one word?" She looks across at Harry to see him smiling, and she notes the sheen of tears in his eyes. "Darling, what is it? What does he mean?"

"I'll tell you in the morning, Ruth. Right now, I need to hold you. I feel like such a lucky man."

Harry puts the phone back on the bedside table, and then turns to her and wraps his arms around her, resting his head on the pillow beside hers. He falls asleep easily, his heart full.

_Fin_ _ (definitely, this time.)_

* * *

_**A/N: Thank you, NatesDate**__**for the prompt/idea, and also to theoofoof, HR always lives on, and Sparky75 for suggesting I write a follow-up.**_


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